


I Me Confess

by cheshireArcher



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, Henry V - Shakespeare
Genre: Falling In Love, Love and Loss, M/M, Medieval poetry, Poetry, almost complete historical accuracy hella, ambiguous age gap, possible power imbalance, which shouldn't be too bad considering this is the middle ages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 12:44:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10335002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshireArcher/pseuds/cheshireArcher
Summary: Charles, Duke of Orléans never regretted it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT as of 2018: I wrote this before I began studying Charles d'Orleans in depth, making this almost embarrassing though it's not too bad.
> 
> I need to rewrite all my old Charles fics.
> 
> \----
> 
> Based on conversations with Gentle_Herald about the nature of the Constable and Orléans's relationship. 
> 
> The poem this story is based on, and includes, was indeed written by Orléans.
> 
> (Note: While most of this is historical (except their relationship of course) I have aged Orleans up. Their ages are never mentioned, but historically the Constable was far older than Orleans. Who cares. This is fanfiction. I control what happens)

_My ghostly fader, I me confess,  
First to God and then to you._

 

Time had passed but the past refused to fade. The seasons changed and the years blended together for Charles, Duke of Orléans, who was imprisoned in England. A very nice prison, since he was a noble, but a prison all the same, not France, not home. He had grown accustomed to England and the English language and had taken to writing poetry- he had nothing better to do. And because the past refused to fade, he wrote about it. He wrote the usual chivalric romantic garbage, that’s what everyone liked, and since it was all a romance the author was very detached from this world of glorious war and chivalry and courtly love. He’d seen war, he was young when he fought in the mud at Agincourt against King Henry, fifth of that name of England. Governing a kingdom wasn’t as noble as people thought—he had been a child when the news arrived that his father had been murdered on the orders of the Duke of Burgundy. He’d been married to a fair lady- the daughter of the French king and the widow of the English king Richard. They’d both been young, and Orleans had lost her young and been left with their baby daughter. Somehow the romance writers forgot to mention things like that.

So he wrote about loss—the people who had been taken from him, and his imprisonment far from home. But also of spring and beauty and the excitement of love.

 One topic fell into both categories and kept creeping into his writing- Charles d’Albret, High Constable of France.

They had initially been friends and colleagues, having grown close while battling the endless stress of the royal court and geopolitics. The Constable had been a seasoned politician by the time Orléans knew him-- in war he was the second most powerful man in the country. He was a strategist, brash and sometimes arrogant, and a workaholic. Orléans was young, not ignorant but still unaccustomed to the machinations and rivalries of French politics. It was almost too much to handle at first—everything made him remember that politics was what had taken his father from him. But the Constable must have seen something in him, and he took Orléans under his wing. They became friends, understanding each other—the Constable with his experience and Orléans with his astute understanding of emotion. These attributes made them a great team.

Orléans had noted at some point that the Constable was handsome. He was much older, and yet very good-looking. His sharp, aquiline face, intense eyes, and hair long enough to pull back were an excellent combination. Orléans had realized this around the same time he realized how loyal they were to each other.

Neither had to say anything. They knew what was on the other’s mind and when the other needed support. There had been many times when the Constable stood up to a noble trying to intimidate Orléans, and the younger man felt himself grow all the stronger for it. He had a similar effect on the Constable, who rarely thought about anyone else, either out of a simple lack of understanding people or a personality defect. Orléans was better with recognizing emotion and analyzing how to use it and somewhere along in that process, the Constable started being more… human.

 

 _That at a window, wot ye how,_  
_I stale a kosse of gret swetness,_  
_Which don was out avisiness—_  
_But it is doon, not undoon, now._

 

It happened one night at a feast held by the king. Orléans and the Constable had been held captive by the Dauphin, who as usual would not shut up about his horse, which was apparently God’s gift to equinedom, if there was such a thing. They had managed to escape and had walked down a hallway, talking and making fun of the Dauphin.

“No wonder he loves his horse so much,” Orléans said, suppressing a laugh. “It’s the only thing that will put up with him!”

“And since he hasn’t exactly got the princesses of Europe throwing themselves at his feet,” the Constable added, which made them both laugh.

They stopped in front of a window and looked out into the sky over Paris. The stars were especially bright tonight, the moon even more so. The Constable leaned on the sill, looking up and drawing several breaths of fresh air. Orléans joined him, shoulder to shoulder, close enough to touch.

Despite all the years he had to think about it, Orléans could not remember- or he just did not know—which one of them it had been to lean in first. Maybe they did so at the same time—Orléans wasn’t even thinking at that moment. Whatever happened to start it, Orléans would never forget that kiss. Nothing could have been sweeter. In a moment, their lips were together and the Constable’s hand in Orléans’s hair, gently burying and twisting his fingers in the curls. Orléans reached around and splayed his hands on the Constable’s back, feeling every movement and twitch of the older man’s muscles.

Finally they broke, pulling back a bit but still holding each other. The Constable raised a hand to Orléans’ cheek. “Charles…” he whispered. It was the first time the Constable had ever called Orléans by his given name. Without thinking, Orléans surged forward, taking the Constable’s face in his hands and kissing him again. He released the Constable after a few seconds and was unsure of what to do now.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Charles,” the Constable said, stepping away.

Orléans nodded and also took his leave.

He didn’t regret kissing the Constable in the slightest.

 

_My ghostly fader, I me confess,  
First to God and then to you._

 

He didn’t regret any of the other times he kissed the Constable, or the times that they spent alone in a… private meeting. Or the nights they’d found themselves curled up in bed together, Orléans with his head on the Constable’s chest and the other man stroking his hair as they talked before falling asleep. No matter how much he should have regretted it, he didn’t at all. He was in love, a wonderful feeling despite the stress of court and the looming war as the Dauphin taunted the King of England. That all existed outside. The Constable understood, not needing to ask or say anything. They still felt a deep loyalty to the other, still comrades and friends.

The Constable was far less a romantic than Orléans, although he too fell in love. It resulted in fear when he remembered who he was, particularly in relation to his lover—older, higher-ranking—and he himself knew that he was cold, sometimes brash and ruthless, a politician with a calculating nature that had survived court this long. None of these things made him a suitable lover or even friend. Orléans was younger and less experienced with the nature of French politics. He feared Orléans would feel he was being taken advantage of—especially since the Constable was older than him—but most of all he feared he was indeed doing that without realizing it.

“You regret nothing?” He asked once.

“What is there to regret?” Orléans replied.

“Charles, you have to consider the risks—”

 “I—I don’t care if it’s socially unacceptable,” Orléans said. “No one knows.” His face fell. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “What if people think I’m just using my friendship with you to get ahead?”

“You wouldn’t be the first at court to do something like that,” the Constable replied. So Orléans had a similar fear—but not the same. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

“What would you have to gain from me?” Orléans asked. “You outrank me, you—” The Constable could see the realization dawn on him. “…do you want to?” He asked, his voice serious and sounding nearly fearful, like he expected an answer he wouldn’t like.

“No,” the Constable replied, truthfully.

“Then you can’t if I don’t let you,” Orléans said. “I’m not a child. I’m a man. I can make my own decisions.”

The Constable felt proud—this was the man he loved. Suddenly Orléans had his arms around the Constable, kissing him. The Constable kissed back, relief flooding him.

“I love you, Charles,” Orléans whispered into his neck.

The Constable smiled. “Charles,” he said, amused as always by the fact they had the same name, “I love you too.”

He shut the door behind them.

 

 _But I restore it shall, doutless,_  
_Agein, if so be that I mow;_  
_And that to God I make a vow,_  
_And elles I axe foryefness._

 

            Orléans regretted one thing. The Battle of Agincourt was the last time he saw his Constable. They parted to join the troops they were to lead, and they never saw each other again. He wished he had kissed the Constable, long and hard and sweet, even in front of the rest of the commanders. How could he have known the outcome, the cost, the future. He felt like he had too many times before—when his father was murdered, when his wife died—his heart was ripped out and he couldn’t cry enough. Charles d’Albret, High Constable of France died at Agincourt, October 25th, 1415.

            Orléans was captured and taken to England, where he would be held for twenty-five years. King Henry V, victor of Agincourt, made sure the French could not ransom Orléans. He took to writing poetry in both English and French in his copious amounts of free time, eventually growing to speak English better than French. It was just as well, France had been lost.

            They’d been fighting for a dying body, even defeating Henry’s troops couldn’t save it. King Charles was growing worse every day and his son was worthless, what else was there? The Constable had died fighting for what he’d sworn to protect.

            He should have kissed him then. He regretted not returning that kiss he’d stolen long ago, and he wished he could be forgiven for failing the Constable in that regard. He just hoped the other man knew he was loved.

            So Charles, Duke of Orléans wrote. Many of his love poems obviously referenced women, but others were vague—he only said what happened that night in front of the window, not identifying the other party. He wrote about spring, breaking through the miserable English weather and giving him hope every year, even as he longed for France and the man he loved.

 

_My ghostly fader, I me confess,  
First to God and then to you._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Confession of a Stolen Kiss by Charles, Duke of Orléans
> 
> My ghostly fader, I me confess,  
> First to God and then to you,  
> That at a window, wot ye how,  
> I stale a kosse of gret swetness,  
> Which don was out avisiness—  
> But it is doon, not undoon, now.
> 
> My ghostly fader, I me confess,  
> First to God and then to you.
> 
> But I restore it shall, doutless,  
> Agein, if so be that I mow;  
> And that to God I make a vow,  
> And elles I axe foryefness.
> 
> My ghostly fader, I me confesse,  
> First to God and then to you.


End file.
